That summer was not the summer of my first love, nor one that tells of an impressive journey, nor of a situation so important that it changed the trajectory of my life. Those weeks only retain moments of my early adolescence, for the first time away from my parents and removed from the ease of what had been my world until then. Long, warm, sometimes rainy days, full of mundane situations, so to speak. But also a journey of search along the rocky paths of myself and my apprehensions; of future longings and refuges that arose in the exploration of an embarrassing youthful state of mind, to which the rural environment of that camp was as foreign as the unpredictable internal storm that I needed to understand. A long distance to emotional calm, just over half an hour from home, in a small town in the Navarrese mountains, close to Gipuzkoa.
The parish church planned a summer residence in an old farmhouse that had to be refurbished to allow the sleeping bags to be spread out on its damaged wooden floor. I had never cleaned so much, at least not in this way, nor had I been so far away from home, or so far away from myself. I felt insecure and vulnerable, I didn’t know how quickly a towel hanging out in the sun dries, how to heal a blister or light a fireplace, and that you shouldn’t clean a knife with the bottom of your shirt and the edge facing inwards. I knew almost nothing, and even less how to face that bumpy journey towards self-affirmation, which made my arrival in that place a return to the tedious parenthesis that my time as a solitary boy in any place outside of everyday life became. “Adolescence was for me a true initiation into defeats,” as Bioy Casares said, and in my case it was no exception.
It was a journey of searching through the rocky paths of myself and my apprehensions; through future longings and refuges that arose in the exploration of an embarrassing youthful state of mind.
Now, sometimes, instability, whether climatic or emotional, triggers a storm that forces us to retreat, transforming an apparent inconvenience into an escape. Those days of lightning, thunder and summer boredom pushed us to find creative ways to fill them. They were mornings of invented games and explorations of the surroundings after the downpour cleared. Afterwards, everything was simpler: we sat down to chat, built forts with sleeping bags and read. We learned to wait and value the ephemeral, without yet knowing that it had a name. There were nights in tents, with scary stories exaggerated by the flickering light of the lanterns. Laughter under the stars and conspiratorial conversations in the light of the strawberry moon. Dives in the river, full of dark bends where the imagination lurked disturbing silhouettes and risks. Mischief and confidences of dreams as idealistic as they were unattainable that transformed us into soccer forwards, into the battery of a group heavy or Formula One drivers. At that age, daydreaming becomes a form of protest.
Eternal friendships were forged with boys whom I would never see again, and something made me feel that those goodbyes would be repeated in the future. They were days of endless walks along sun-baked paths, among trees, without a mobile phone or first aid kit. Of mandatory optional activities, of chafed feet and the smell of smoke on clothes, with inexperienced instructors who I perceived as judicious adults, just as I saw athletes and so many other figures who today seem to me to be crazy young people. For someone like me, who sought to go unnoticed and participate in activities without attracting attention, the lack of security that came with being a simple passive observer generated a shyness that I did not know how to hide.
Eternal friendships were forged with boys I would never see again and something made me feel that these goodbyes would be repeated in the future.
That album of rescued moments preserves the days spent chasing distractions in streams, catching eskallus and crayfish. It preserves the shame I felt when showering with my companions, the intimidating sound of the flapping and buzzing of dangerous, harmless insects; the shocking taste of soups overheated on gas stoves or the annoying smell of cheap cleaning products and the sweat of post-pubertal hustle and bustle. But it also retains the earthy and slightly sweet fragrance of ferns that seeped through the gap that was once an old window, illuminated horizons and the freshness of spring water. It recalls rays of sunlight on the canvas of the tents where we slept some nights and kind and trusting gestures around nighttime campfires. That experience was a mirror in which to discover myself, an opportunity to trace in my inner map paths to tread and signs on the route of trust. A refuge in the adventure of searching for identity.